


destination (unsaid words)

by otshineon (alexscarlet)



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band), SHINee, f(x)
Genre: Agender Character, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Anxiety, Bisexuality, Cats, Codependency, Depression, Dissociation, Fae & Fairies, Fluff, Gender Dysphoria, Humor, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Parallel Universes, Queer Themes, SHINee Big Bang 2016, Self-Harm, Social Anxiety, Talking Animals, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8084872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexscarlet/pseuds/otshineon
Summary: There are plenty of ways to leave your house without leaving your front door. (Especially, as Kibum finds out, when the multiverse hates you.) Written for SHINee Big Bang 2016!





	1. Weft

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to anyone who has ever supported me! I hold every comment dear to my heart. Special shoutouts go to Linnhe, for her practical advice, Jesse, for their emotional support (after all that last minute editing left me drained and much in need of hugs!), and Elle, for being such a huge inspiring and encouraging force in my writey life.

When Kibum unlocks the bathroom door and steps out into the ocean, the first thing they do is kick their shoes off. That’s something they know, without knowing _how_ they know it. It’s a haziness Kibum would have once troubled with, but it happens more and more often these days, so they’ve learnt to pay it little heed.

 

After recovering from the surprise, Kibum is content to bob, narrowing their eyes against the waves, revelling warmth of the sunlight falling upon their face. The water is, thank God, calm, and it glitters like burnished silver in the bright sun, shining like the scales of a thousand fish. Their hair sticks to their shoulders; they slurp in a cautious sip, spitting it out once they’re assured it’s just saltwater, then they duck below the surface.

 

All at once, Kibum’s hyperaware of the water against their skin, its softness, pushing at their relaxed body, nudging them gently through the tides and ripcurls. They love how this feels, love giving themself over to nature like this, waiting longer and longer between each breath, their hair floating away from them like wild anemone. They’d dyed it purple a while ago but in the eerie mum of the water it shimmers like glass.

 

After a long while, of relentless buoyancy and near drowning, Kibum emerges above the waves for the last time, blinking droplets from their eyelashes. Finally starts craning their neck to see land.

 

There’s nothing. Not even a bird in the sky.

 

Which is…slightly worrying.

 

And Kibum experiences that stomach-dropping, abrupt realisation that there is a billion cubits of water below them that could contain…

 

As familiar as the saltwater is, Kibum doesn’t think they’ve visited this ocean before, and their over-active imagination is kind enough to provide them with scenes from films and documentaries about predators of the deep; bioluminescent squid and orcas and kraken. Kibum feels their heart rate pick up, the beat thrumming through their all-too-vulnerable limbs as they flail around. Little more than a phytoplankton, really, in the grand scheme of things. (Yet even phytoplankton, the sea mumbles, is _useful_.)

 

In that case, Kibum’s a water molecule, strong hydrogen bonds and polar ends and weak instantaneous dipole forces pulling at their fingers and their toes-

 

Before they can start truly panicking, they catch sight of a boat. Between the dips and swells, the little green sailing boat appears and disappears. The tight knot in their chest sinks into their stomach where it unravels a little.

 

Kibum paddles their legs and steadies themself in the water before they yell out, “Ahoy!” in English, because they’ve found it to be a universal language in more than one sense of the word; every world they’ve visited so far has understood some basic form of it. The extent of globalisation never fails to amaze. They’d find it a shame, if it weren’t so helpful. That’s the sort of relativity Kibum lives by.

 

The boat cuts through the waves and Kibum has a second to wonder if calling out _before_ ensuring there were no hostile beings aboard was a little stupid, but, then, the boat pulls up alongside them, and Jonghyun’s head pops up over the side.

 

“Oh it’s you.” Kibum sighs in relief, sagging momentarily underwater.

 

When they resurface again, it’s to hear Jonghyun saying, “I’ve a good mind to leave you there. Haven’t you learnt anything by now?”

 

Jonghyun frowns down at them for a while until he decides Kibum looks suitably penitent before finally offering Kibum a hand.

 

Octopus-like, Kibum flails around, sopping wet and coughing, on the floor on the boat. That is, if octopuses cough. Kibum isn’t sure they do, but they do feel quite slimy, so they suppose that counts. If someone’s keeping tally.

 

“I told you I wasn’t hearing things.” Jonghyun declares. He’s using his pouty voice; the one that’s equal parts infuriating and endearing. Kibum heaves themself onto their back squinting up against the sunlight, and, sure enough, Minho looms into sight. Kibum huffs in annoyance at the smug look on Minho’s face.

 

“Congrats Jonghyun.” Kibum can hear the grin in Minho’s voice. “This’ll feed the two of us with extra to spare.”

 

“I’d like to see you try!” Kibum splutters, though their anger is slightly undermined by the smile sneaking across their features. “And I’d like some dry clothes.” Minho teases them some more as Jonghyun rummages around in the small hold of the boat and conjures up some thick enough blankets. Still bickering, Kibum sheds their water-weighted, cold clothes into a puddle in the middle of the tiny deck - the boat is rather small now they’re on it too - and Jonghyun cocoons them in the blankets.

 

Minho takes one look at them, snuggled up like a burrito, and pushes Kibum over with a gleeful shout. They hit the deck hard and Jonghyun looks momentarily torn between checking they’re alright and laughing his head off. He chooses the latter. No prize for guessing that one, Mister Tally-Maker. Not that Kibum’s surprised. Still lying awkwardly, face down and nose hovering a centimetre above the wooden boards of the deck thanks to their mattress of blankets, Kibum asks, “So, how come you two landed on a boat?” Kibum knows they sound petulant, but they think they can be forgiven. After all, _they’re_ the one in sodden underwear. Jonghyun perches on the boat at it’s bow and swings his bare feet, evidently showing off his pink nail polish. Jonghyun always has pretty painted nails.

 

Jonghyun clicks his tongue and huffs, lips bubble-gum pink and pouting. “How should I know? You’ve been doing this far longer, we should be asking you the questions.” Jonghyun always gets this way, when the worlds shift (or when _they_ shift through the worlds, it all depends on how self-important one feels), because he hates surprises vehemently. Once, he’d mentioned his birthday coming up, and when Minho and Kibum has surprised him with a cake, he’d leapt three feet in the air and slapped them both around the face before he calmed down. Kibum’s still doesn’t think the slapping was really necessary, but Jonghyun always tells the story with relish, to people they meet, and people nearly always laugh. Even after hearing it at least twenty times, Minho still laughs.

 

And they don’t exactly get invitational cards or calendar notices. As Kibum can sympathise, they lets it pass, mumbling only, “I can barely remember last month.”

 

Before Jonghyun can reply, either with a snap or an age-old apology, the little boat blows into a hot gust of wind. Kibum starts feeling a little sick as they are tossed around, rolling from port to starboard in their little sushi roll of blankets. Jonghyun and Minho are too busy fussing with sail and tiller to un-sushify them, but if there are two things Kibum has buckets of, it’s creativity and obstinacy.

 

“A-ha!” they yell when they finally wriggle themself free, jumping up and just missing, by the skin of their nose, the boom, as it swings round when they tack.

 

After that, Kibum just sits placidly beside Jonghyun at the stern and acts as moving ballast when necessary. They’re mostly content to watch their companions work like a well-oiled machine; worldshifting means you get really good at getting good at a huge variety of activities and situations. They wonder when Minho and Jonghyun needed to pick up sailing. Kibum themself can clean chimneys, tap dance, build ladders and pick locks with only a piece of wire; to name but a few. (Though they maintain that the aptitude in which they have most improved is ‘bullshitting through the skin of their teeth’.) They wonder what abilities they had when they first started out, but it’s so far back the mere thought sets a headache thrumming at the base of their skull. They can’t remember a time before the worldshifting began.

 

Calloused hands pass ropes with assured confidence. As they successfully navigate the rough strait, Minho natters on about how, just last forever, Jonghyun and he were stuck on a boat in a fleet of warships harbouring in the bay of another world’s India (it was one of those worlds that echoed their own; those wreck Kibum’s head the most). It had been monsoon season. The fabric of the world shimmers and twists at the edges of Kibum’s vision and they glimpse Minho’s nightmares, smudged blotchy swirls of Minho spluttering awake on the floor beside his bed, drowning in his sheets, tangled and sinking.

 

Kibum blinks and Minho is giving them one of those worried looks so they pinch Minho’s nose just to get him to stop. The wind dies down.

 

It’s not long before the sun snaps back into place. Kibum focuses on the hotness of the sun - almost too hot - against their bare skin, as the clouds drift away, reeled over the horizon, chasing down the ghost of their wreckage. Not today. Not with Jonghyun and Minho around.

 

After a while, Minho ceases the concerned staring.

 

Jonghyun does some more conjuring magic - ok, not really, they’re not in one of those worlds, sadly - and pulls some sandwiches out of the hatch. Kibum learned pretty fast that worrying too much about the origins of food isn’t worth the trouble, nor the stomach rumbling, so they sit there in their underwear and eagerly devour the tuna mayonnaise sandwich. Minho practically inhales his. Since Kibum is sort of on a diet, they toss Minho their crusts. (Nothing to do with Minho’s puppy eyes, definitely not.)

 

When they take a moment to actually think about it, perhaps it’s odd how quickly the three of them fell into companionship; it’s not like Kibum has ever met them in real life before…or, rather, in their own world.

 

Sometimes they’ll look at them, at Jonghyun fiddling with his silver and pink bracelets, or the way Minho flinches if somebody yells too loud, and thinks, _Do I really know you?_ It always throws him off. Kibum will snap at one of them and they will catch their hand, and hold it. Kibum will squeeze their fingers, and remember how Jonghyun, for all his biting, keeps Kibum safe, under the blanket of his quiescent soul; how Minho gathers all their wayward strands and tucks Kibum within himself, stops them from unravelling. They’ll think of how Jonghyun will lean his head on Kibum’s shoulder and Kibum will wrap an arm around him, pull him closer. (In reality, Kibum doesn’t touch people.) They’ll think of Minho listening intently - simultaneously scolding and admiring Kibum’s sharp tongue - with his dark hair curling handsomely, just above the collar of his shirt, never using Kibum’s Bad days against them. (In these worlds, Kibum touches them, and never wants to stop.)

 

The sail flaps and Jonghyun giggles at something Minho’s said, and the threads of fate quiver, fluff exploding, blown to the edges of Kibum’s conscious mind and disappearing beyond. Reverberations shudder to the ends of the loom - somewhere they can’t see - and back to the beginning, each radiating from this circle, in the centre of time.

 

Kibum follows a thread of saffron. Kibum met Jonghyun first, saving him from being beaten up by thugs in the slums of Malpuro. They’d been a little lost themself; the worldshifting had been happening a lot, and at every turn, reality frayed before them. Kibum’s never had a hero complex, but they hadn’t been able to walk past. (Sometime later, a speck of time, when Kibum had stared up at the swirling grey sky of another world’s night, Jonghyun had rest his head against Kibum’s shoulder and said Kibum was selectively sensitive. Couldn’t give a damn about most people. Achingly soft for others. Kibum had felt sick with how gentle Jonghyun’s voice was, how vulnerable each word from Jonghyun’s thin lips made them feel.) There’d been blood but it was the words that ricocheted off the alley walls that hooked into Kibum’s soul, familiar words and that pull, that drag to help, help. It was the first time their existence had steadied in eons. They’d almost gotten beaten up in the process themself, but Kibum’s tongue hadn’t earned its sterling reputation for nothing.

 

Then, garnet and sapphire, when Minho rescued Kibum from being trampled by stampeding Wildelephants in Sekagru. It had been quite the Lion King moment, except for the fact that, well, Minho _survived_. Probably not much like the Lion King, then.

 

After both encounters, Kibum had somehow found themself discovering Jonghyun and Minho everywhere. They’d been expecting to see Minho again, somehow, some weak ache of unfinished business, but Jonghyun had been a surprise. They’d thought that knot was tied. The natural progression had been to form a kind of ‘I’ve got your back’ trio, but Kibum doesn’t think the whole _interdependency_ thing hadn’t been part of the plan.

 

Jonghyun’s soft cry brings Kibum back to the boat; they sway against the swell for a moment, too tangled up in their own matters. “Again?” Jonghyun wails quietly, almost as if he’s talking to himself. Kibum doesn’t even need to ask to know Minho’s hurt himself again. For all the man says he’s an athlete, he falls over himself all the time. Jonghyun’s face pales even as he holds Minho’s hand and squeezes the flesh around the slice across Minho’s palm, eyes widening at the beads of blood that thread themselves through the minor laceration, gulping so loudly Kibum rolls their eyes and Minho laughs.

 

“D’you need a plaster?” Kibum asks.

 

“Do you have any?” Minho counters. He knows Kibum does. Kibum always has little pink plasters in their pockets; has done since they can remember. They snort out a laugh at the phrase, fishing around in their sopping shorts. They chuck them at Minho who, hand still clasped in Jonghyun’s smaller ones, can only half-heartedly duck out of the way. The plasters hit his cheek and Kibum laughs. Jonghyun makes use of Minho’s indignant bickering with Kibum and rests Minho’s hand on his knees. Minho squats to accommodate, face softening at the small crease between Jonghyun’s eyebrows as he snatches up the fallen plasters, licks the blood from Minho’s hand, and fusses to plaster the cut as best as possible.

 

“Did he just-“

 

“He did.”

 

“He _licked_ you.”

 

“Yummy.” Jonghyun pipes up. There’s a beat of silence then Minho giggles, and when Minho giggles everyone else does too. It’s a rule, a law of the multiverses. Well, Kibum, at least, thinks it _should_ be.

 

“I remembered something.” Kibum says then, eyes fixed on Minho’s long-fingered hands; veins looping round his joints and dancing up beyond the sleeve of his shirt. Minho looks at them sharply.

 

“I’m glad.” Jonghyun smiles.

 

Minho says, “And?”

 

Kibum wants to tell the truth, to say ‘When I met you’, but the words weigh heavy on their tongue. “I remembered you’ve always been annoying.”

 

Jonghyun cackles and Minho splutters and the whole boat is in uproar for an hour, or maybe a day. Kibum’s bad at looking ahead.

 

“So, any idea where we are?” Kibum muses, finally, eyes on the hazy distance where sea blends into sky, thinking maybe Jonghyun or Minho might’ve been here before.

 

Minho makes a humming noise, in the way one does in gathering thoughts or casting back into memory. He takes up Kibum’s gazing, and Jonghyun and Kibum exchange fond, frustrated glances when he doesn’t tell them what he knows straight away.

 

Kibum cracks eventually, “Minho?”

 

At the very same time, Minho lurches across the boat, nearly throwing himself off the side, staring wildly across the waves. Jonghyun and Kibum rush to counter-balance the boat, then simultaneously scowl at his back.

 

Minho glances over his shoulder at them, excited smile on his face not faltering even when he clocks their disapproving and confused glares, “Other people!”

 

That gets their attention.

 

“Where?” Jonghyun rubs his eyes and blinks rapidly, as if that could somehow help him see further. Meanwhile, Kibum trusts Minho’s 20-20 vision and tries not to look directly at Jonghyun’s candyfloss hair, glinting brilliant pink, far too bright in the sun.

 

As they sail in the direction Minho dictates, thankfully with the wind at their back, he explains everything he can remember. “I haven’t been here since I was young, mind you. There were floods, devastating flooding, seasons screwed up, Green Party proven right and all that. They built cities on the water and created the…NSL? No, the NLS - New Land Settlements. Only there wasn’t enough room and there was all this trouble with wealthy people bribing their way in and the masses starving away into shark bait, yada yada.”

 

Jonghyun’s face scrunches up indignantly. Before he can launch his lecture, no doubt about capitalism being an unjust system of governance employed solely by people who’ve sold their souls to the devil, Minho continues, “People built large rafts and lashed them together to form huge floating communities. It’s a delicate business.” An emotion flashes across his face too fast for Kibum to register but there’s an edge present in Minho’s tone now. Kibum thinks, _these memories are jagged shards of broken mirrors._

 

“Too big or too small, either can lead to wreckage.” Minho says, in that voice. They pause momentarily to tack, and then settle again. Minho decides to conclude with, “It’s really shitty but our ability to…their tenacity? It’s just awe-inspiring. Uplifting, in some perverse way. You know.”

 

Jonghyun nods approvingly at this, like he does know. Kibum has to hit him because sometimes Jonghyun gets so righteous he needs a good kick up the arse to bring him back down from Cloud Descartes. Or whoever that philosophical anthropologist is, whom Jonghyun always quotes. Jonghyun sticks his tongue out in response.

 

“So they’re nice people, then?” Kibum says, faux-casual. They note the twitch of tension in Minho’s shoulders; the hot sun has stripped him of his button-down and Kibum’s grateful, that twitch raising Kibum’s alertness. Plus, Kibum isn’t going to lie, they appreciate the wife-beater; that’s what friends do; they appreciate each other’s biceps. They make sure to look away before Minho catches them.

 

“Most of them are good people. But you know how it is. Pleasantries aren’t the priority for those who have to fight every day to survive.” Minho clears his throat. “No, I’m, I’m doing them a disservice. ‘Cause I’ve been to a lot of places. But I’ve never met people with so little willing to share so much.” None of them comment on the way Minho starts blinking rapidly. He coughs a little and, slowly but surely, a smile reappears on his face. “I wonder how they’re getting on. This probably isn’t their colony but you never know! Hey, get your shirt?”

 

Kibum obeys without question, scooping the half-dry white shirt from its place draped over the bow. They steal Minho’s button-down as they do so, shrugging into it to protect their shoulders from the blistering heat. Minho enthusiastically waves Kibum’s white top back and forth in an intercosmic display of peace and Jonghyun and Kibum have to lurch to the other side of the boat to stop Minho’s movement rocking it too much.

 

Minho catches sight of a waving flag and squints at it.

 

“Well?” Kibum doesn’t hesitate this time, sick of waiting for Minho to get himself together.

 

“It’s yellow and black?”

 

“Yellow and black?” That gets Jonghyun and Kibum precariously stretching out over the port side alongside him.

 

Ramshackle houses of patched-together driftwood and corrugated metal sit upon the ocean, waves lapping up to rust away the edges, slowly corroding the sprawling raft town. The levels nearing them are darkening, as people, skin tanned black with the relentless summer, crowd along the narrow ladders and plastic pathways. They’re shouting something, arms waving at them wildly, but none of them can understand the words.

 

As they draw closer, the sun striking off the aluminium rooftops blinds them.

 

Jonghyun turns to Minho, eyes scrunched up and forehead crumpled with frustration, “I’ve never seen a black and yellow flag before, what do you,” It’s in that split second when Jonghyun takes a breath that Kibum hears it, the snap of scissors, “think?”

 

“Oh God.” Kibum gasps, backing away to the starboard side on trembling legs. Black thread slashes like a scythe across all other colours.

 

“Ki? What’d you hear?” Minho asks, voice tight with tension, forcedly calm.

 

Kibum bolts into action, flinging themself at the tiller to steer them away.

 

“The _fuck_?”

 

“Can’t you hear them?” Kibum yells, and Jonghyun takes a step back, affronted. Kibum feels like all the salt in the air has lodged itself in their throat; each word hurts, hurts, hurts. The confusion on Jonghyun’s face and the dawning on Minho’s have Kibum choking on a sob,

 

“Plague, Jjong. They’ve got the plague.”

 

Now they’ve heard it, they can’t stop hearing it; the roar of their voices calling out, raw and harsh. Across the water rushes a tsunami of human devastation. It trembles in the screams of a mother, holding out her stick-thin child towards them, begging them to save him; in the high shrieks of warning from the tiny, sunburnt children doing jumping jacks on the tin roofs to scare them away; in the wild, white-wide stares of the elderly, bodies shaking with each brittle yell.

Kibum thinks they hear, _“Plague, plague! Leave here! Don’t come closer!”_

Then, another, _“Save yourselves!”_

And, _“Save my child!”_

 

They sail past. They sail parallel to the seemingly neverending sea-town, the people eventually quieting when convinced they aren’t going to dock. Silence settles heavy over the ocean, oppressively hot in the midday sun, smothering the waves and shrouding the island of twisted plastic and eroding metal in despair so opaque it’s hard to pick out the individual faces of the statue-still rafters. In the shadows of a shack perched precariously at the last edge of the ramshackle settlement, Kibum’s eyes are drawn to an emaciated young man, sharp shadows painting the youth into a spectral water-wraith. Their gazes must lock, despite all the sea between them, for Kibum can feel the vague bleakness of the young man’s vastly apathetic stare; a second passes and the boy smiles, softly, emptily.

 

Within Kibum’s ribcage, intent floods, thick as blood, desperate and relentless. Intent for _what_ , they don’t know, only that they have to, have to do something, something, for that boy, for their chest to stop aching, something-

 

The infected town disappears behind the rolling waves, finally. Kibum is shaking so much they’re steering the boat all over the place. A particularly large lurch breaks the spell keeping the others captive, and Minho comes to the stern, nudges them aside and takes the tiller himself. Kibum sits, plastered to Minho’s side, leeching Minho’s heat as if that could warm them, as if anything could raise them out off the bone-deep chill they’re sinking in, scorching sunlight be damned. They try not to think of the tiny sunburnt baby or that skeletal boy. At one point, Minho kisses their fringe. Kibum reaches out and clutches onto Minho’s bicep and makes their lips form the words, “Don’t worry, it’s a lot of ocean. I’m sure that wasn’t them.”

 

They’ve always been shitty at comforting people and this time doesn’t seem to be an exception. They’re not even sure if Minho has recognised their effort, until Minho hums quietly and kisses their forehead again. His lips are chapped and soft as dawn, and his eyes are less guarded, less painful to look at, when he draws back. Kibum feels suddenly overwhelmed, with the feeling of having done something. Something right. Something devastating. A keen sense of loss stabs them in the gut, the feeling gone just as fast as it came. _A knot tied._

 

Kibum closes their eyes and lets themself shiver out the cold and breath in the warmth.

 

When they open them again, it’s to see Jonghyun standing on the edge of the boat. Minho has his back to him and hasn’t noticed. Jonghyun’s toes curl over the edge of the boat - when had he taken his shoes off? - and he bends his knees, drawing back his arms.

 

“Jjong!” Kibum pushes Minho aside, and dives to stop Jonghyun from leaping into the sea. The next thing they register is the shock of water, freezing after the intense heat, then Jonghyun writhing in his arms. Kibum can’t open their eyes underwater, salt stinging too much, and they start panic, as Jonghyun pulls them along. Judging by the way the water is grows colder still Jonghyun is swimming deeper and deeper, and Kibum’s drowns in confusion and betrayal and the single instinct of self-preservation.

 

They break the surface.

 

Kibum is too busy hacking half a lung up, to realise they haven’t surfaced where they were before. When they start breathing properly again, they finally notice where they are; on a beach, with sand the colour of spilt blood.

 

They make a surprised noise in the back of their throat that escalates into another coughing fit. Jonghyun, who had his eyes open for the whole world shift thing, is stumbling around dizzily, but he manages to pat Kibum on the back, and so hard Kibum thinks they’re going to have bruises. They appreciate the good will, though.

 

That’s when their brain actually clocks the crimson sand and the black skeletal trees at the edge of the beach and the anaemic sky. They swear colourfully and Jonghyun immediately tenses. “Izwe Mamlakat.” Kibum spits, climbing to their feet. “Fucking cannibals.”

 

\---

 

Kibum awakes in their own bed, back in their own world, with a crick in their neck from where they and Jonghyun had fallen asleep, locked in a cage after being caught by the cannibals and - thankfully not eaten - being sold to merchants in exchange for vegetables. Apparently the bloody, sandy soil isn’t fertile and even cannibals need a balanced diet. Kibum feels simultaneously disgusted at the thought of food and ravenously hungry. They laugh and a thread snaps.

 

Kibum just hopes Jonghyun managed to make it out alive, too. In the faded dark of early morning light, Kibum’s fingers trail over the white expanse of pure cotton sheets, and they miss Jonghyun. It’s this heaviness in the base of their stomach, that leeches energy from the outreaches of Kibum’s limbs, engulfing it impatiently, like a black hole, leaving them drowned. Floating facedown. They turn their head and in the sun slanting through the curtains, their hair looks glass-like. Shattered across the pillow.

 

What they have with them, with Jonghyun and Minho both, feels, despite the distance, _closer_.

 

That, Kibum thinks, is the advantage of sub-reality. Secrets, they’ve found, come easier when real life isn’t lurking around to fuck things up. Of course, there’s certainly a caution that still remains, underpinning every interaction, a push-and-pull of reaching out and withdrawing, clandestine silence and secret-spilling. They’ve told Jonghyun things nobody else alive knows about, and had the same returned. Minho’s less talkative by nature, and Kibum isn’t one to hand out stories without due return, so there’s more silence between them. Despite this, or maybe because of it, Kibum finds themself enticed, drawn ever closer. Once, a time they don’t like to dwell on, Minho had been dragged through the veil and spat out, bruised and battered, his nose broken and his eye black, and had burst into tears. Kibum’s still not sure how much the veil is to blame.

 

(Occasionally there’s this tingle, whenever they’re about to world-shift, a nice little forewarning. The tingling starts in their fingers and spreads through their bloodstream the closer they gets to the tears in reality, until they find the rips in intercosmic veils and pulls themself through. Jonghyun says his warning is far less pleasant, more like pins and needles sticking into his limbs so he searches for the shredded shroud just to ease the pain. Minho doesn’t like talking about the whole process of intercosmic travelling much, but he usually has bruises on his arms. The black eye though. That had been new.)

 

For as much as they antagonise one another, they’ve somehow developed a bond strong enough that even the multiverse keeps throwing them together, over and over, on their world-shifting journeys.

 

Thinking back, the last time Kibum shifted alone, without discovering either of their companions, had been lifetimes ago. There’s a deep contentment that comes with such knowledge, the sort of contentment Kibum should know doesn’t last.

 

 ---


	2. Selvedge

Kibum walks down the stairs out of their apartment (for the first time in a while) and doesn't think about the next stride, safe in the knowledge that there are five steps, in the same way they know the colour of their front door; pink, though they have no idea which shade.

 

So they’re understandably thrown when, despite the floor stretching out like it usually does, their next stride takes them down yet again.

 

Kibum halts so fast they have to whirl their arms to stop themself from falling. Their left foot is still on the last step and their right one is _through_ the floor. They bend, swaying to keep their balance, and tap the floor right beside their submerged foot and it is still rock hard. Tentatively they straighten, and then move their left foot; and sure enough, it passes through the floor like it's not there at all. Kibum can feel the firmness of another step beneath their feet and it's doing their head in to look down so they just look straight and walks forward.

 

The ground rises to meet them and Kibum squeezes their eyes shut as their head disappears through it.

 

When they open them again, they’re at the top of a rickety wooden staircase. They blink furiously to adjust to the darkness.

 

For a second they keep still, listening for movement nearby, then down the stairs they go, each creaking under their weight despite their best efforts to keep quiet. They flatten themself against the wall and spies around the corner carefully. They’re in an abandoned bar, empty. Probably due to the early hour, if the faint light filtering through the grimy windows is any clue.

 

Kibum sneaks across the room cursing every loose floorboard, approaching the window with trepidation.

 

They look outside and feels their heart plummet. If Kibum's not much mistaken, they’re back in Rossalem. Spiralling pink, the pink of flesh, repeats itself over and over. It’s a pattern they’re too familiar with.

 

Heart in their mouth, Kibum flees to the shadows behind the bar, crouching down in the dirt and grime and other questionable substances without a second thought. The Omatiyor of Rossalem are far more daunting than dodgy sticky patches on the floor. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Kibum isn’t breathing. They see themself shiver. They see carbon dioxide, the dense grey of tarnished ten pence coins. Out. Their chest shudders on the inhale. Out. Look out the window.

 

Judging by the sight out the grimy glass - distant shining monolith domes painted in gold, towering over blackened roofs, crumbling shacks nearby - they’re somewhere in the bowels of Rossalem's capital city, Tikanlar.

 

They’re not sure if that's a blessing or a curse; on one hand, they’re safer in the teeming slums edging the city where they can blend in with the nameless Omadsiz. (As much as it hurts, an age-old hurt, to be Omadsiz when they’re not, they’re not, why are people only seen in boxes?) On the other hand, last time they found themself here, there’d been an upsurge in purges and raids on Omadsiz-populated suburbs. Kibum feels torn, but before they can truly evaluate the best course of action, the door is slammed open. Kibum peers around the edge of the bar to see five Omatiyor come streaming inside, stun guns in hand, handcuffs looped through their belts, pouches of tear gas attached at their hips.

 

Kibum doesn’t dare breathe, shrinking into themself. They tuck their toes in; ensuring every part of them is hidden. Cursing silently, they guess the building is deserted due to warnings of police raids.

 

The Omatiyor find them easily enough.

 

One second they’re curled up small as could be, the next there’s a hand in their hair yanking them up and pulling them back over the bar. Shocked, Kibum can only lie sprawled across the tabletop and stare up at the Omatiyor’s upside-down face smirking down at them. She shoves them off the bar top and they nearly fly into the wall of alcohol. The shelving bites into their hands as Kibum throws them up to stop themself from eating glass.

 

Every nerve tingling with adrenaline, Kibum faces her. She’s gorgeous, in the way that all Omatiyor are gorgeous; each different, but with universally striking features and beautiful bodies, carrying themselves self-righteously whilst exuding an air of entitlement. Dark blonde fringe and wavy locks frame a round face with unblemished skin complete with amber lips, straight nose and eyes lined with black. Behind her, the other Omatiyor have similarly long, luscious hair and intimidatingly perfect faces. They look like dolls.

 

The Omatiyor who grabbed Kibum now talks, the eyes roaming over them containing a mixture of disgust and curiosity. “Well, well, well, this _is_ nice. I thought they’d all figured out when we come raiding, but apparently something didn’t get the memo!”

 

Kibum tries not to shiver at being called a ‘something’ but they tense nonetheless; the Omatiyor seems to actually look at them for a moment, perhaps surprised at the reaction, before her gaze glazes over again. It’s disconcerting how distant her expression is, when her entire body is quivering with suppressed energy. The suppression makes Kibum glance at the other four Omatiyor in hopes of discerning the leader; sure enough, members of the Troupe seem to be sending regular side-glances towards an Omatiyor with loosely coiled, honey blonde curls and the prettiest face Kibum has ever seen.

 

“What shall we do with it?” asks another abruptly, in the tone of one speaking out of turn but too filled with anticipation to be silent any longer. Sure enough, she gets a sharp glare from the leader, but she appears oblivious, edging forward towards Kibum like she can’t wait to get her hands on them.

 

Kibum decides it’s time to speak up, their tension and anxiety forcing their hand, “I’m terribly sorry to-“

 

“It talked!” The wayward, black-haired Omatiyor, scurries back to her place near the open door in her shock. At the same time, the Omatiyor who first discovered them leaps neatly over the bar, grabs their collar, and punches them in the face, before Kibum can react.

 

“How dare it talk to us!” Her face crumples with gleeful fury.

 

“W-wait! Listen to me! I’m a-“

 

“Listen to it?” The Omatiyor screeches in their face, raising her hand to pull Kibum onto their tiptoes and punching them in the stomach, leaving Kibum unable to double-up, groaning in pain as she controls them completely. “This is the most fun I’ve had in ages!”

 

“Wendy.” rings the leader’s high, clear voice. Wendy’s already halfway through a punch but she pulls it enough that Kibum doesn’t feel like they’ve been hit by a car. (They know that feeling from personal experience - not something they want to relive again). Wendy’s eyes scrunch with disappointment and Kibum can see her reining in the energy that thrums around her, slashes of white and blinding.

 

“Irene?” Wendy demands, low voice tight with frustration.

 

“Let’s hear what it has to say.”

 

“Hear?” a whine sneaks into Wendy’s tone, her bottom lip slipping out to form a pout. Irene’s face twitches in anger and an Omatiyor that has yet to speak, with brunette hair and thin eyes, touches Irene’s arm in a reminder of restraint, before reprimanding Wendy herself.

 

“Do what Irene says, Wen.” Kibum blinks at that, intrigued at the nickname; it’s the first time they’ve ever heard an Omatiyor use a familiar abbreviation with another. Wendy lets them go roughly and Kibum focuses on breathing normally again, raising oxygen levels in their bloodstream once again so their muscles are ready for either defence mechanism. “You. Omadsiz, speak.”

 

Kibum straightens their shirt and doesn’t spare Wendy a glance, focusing their efforts on their leader, Irene. “Firstly, my name is Kibum.” There are hisses at its impertinence - to name itself! Surely that’s illegal! “That’s one of two things you need to know about me. The second,” it’s a risk, but one they have to take. Two needles are threaded and they prick their thumb on the sharpest. “I’m a world-shifter.”

 

Kibum can’t quite put their finger on it, but the whole atmosphere of the room seems to change. The glances they shoot between them increase in frequency although they speak no words aloud. As the silence stretches on, and Kibum watches their faces intently, they can see the nexus is no longer Irene, but the final Omatiyor, yet to contribute.

 

She stands nearly hidden behind Irene’s left shoulder, beside the lively black-haired girl; her brunette hair shines rich auburn in the pale light coming in through the doorway and her fair skin is speckled with golden freckles. There is a youthfulness about her, a fierce devotion to seeming aloof that’s almost innocent, that suggests she is the youngest. Finally, she comes forward, until only the bar separates them. Kibum reminds themself yet again that breathing is a good thing.

 

“You’re a world-shifter?” Kibum subconsciously relaxes at the acknowledgement of them as a person, not merely a thing.

 

“Yes,” Kibum answers cautiously, “And I mean no disrespect.” Their gut lurches, their head thrumming at what they need to say next. Oh God, oh God. How many times have they sheltered them, looked out for them- “But I don’t think that warrants me being treated like an _Omadsiz_.” The words taste like dirt in their mouth and they gulp back a shudder of self-disgust.

 

“No, no, no, of course not.” She rushes to reassure them, as if it were the thought of Omadsiz that made Kibum so shiver. Kibum wants to be sick, but they don’t have the right to. And the needle jabs into their spine when Kibum even _thinks_ of giving themself away. “Though you’re lucky _we_ found you.”

 

“You won’t pack me off to prison?” Kibum asks.

 

She purses her pink lips; “It’s labour camps now.”

 

“Oh, great.” Kibum says lightly.

 

A small crease appears between her eyebrows. “We don’t want to do it, but we have to.” Kibum isn’t so sure about that, glancing over her shoulder at where Wendy (Kibum has no idea when she moved) is frowning at Irene, the leader’s face in a state of continual detachment.

 

The Omatiyor in front of him, as if she senses where they’re looking, thrusts a hand across the bar, “I’m Yeri. Don’t bother about Wendy, she’s just stir crazy. She’s usually the most reasonable of us all, but the problem with being in a Troupe with a reputation for ‘letting the Omadsiz off lightly’ is that you don’t really get sent out much. And Irene’s…” Yeri bites her lip, making it flush crimson before it blushes rose upon release. “She’s working on it. But she’s got to uphold our image and,” Yeri leans over the bar conspiratorially, “She’s a product of our society.” Yeri straightens, “It’s hard to go against the grain.”

 

Kibum smiles at her tentatively. “Believe me, I know.” When Yeri returns the smile with an equally crooked one (like a dusty journal stuffed at the back of a bookcase for solely private enjoyment), Kibum’s limbs finally stop shaking with adrenaline.

 

“So how should we get you out?”  
  
Suddenly, the Omatiyor, with black hair that curls just below her shoulders, reappears beside Yeri, “Joy! I’m Joy, you need a portal, don’t you?”

 

Kibum hasn’t really thought of them as portals - for some reason their head hurts when they start inspecting the whole world-shifting thing too closely - but it’s an apt description. “Yes. But they’re not exactly well advertised. That’d be just too helpful and the multiverse is eternally dedicated to making everything as long-winded and complex as possible. Which is just _fabulous_.”

 

Yeri hums, perhaps in agreement, and then muses, “The palace has many permanent intracosmic gateways and temporary intercosmic portals are often drawn to them.”

 

“That’s a suicide mission.” Kibum blurts out, much to Yeri’s apparent amusement. She and Joy exchange grins and Kibum groans in anticipation.

 

“Don’t worry! You’re pretty enough as it is-“

 

“Hell no!” Kibum wails, making Yeri’s smirk widen exponentially.

 

“If you want to escape you will. You’ll make a beautiful Omatiyor,” she insists, pulling Kibum out from behind the bar and pushing them back towards the staircase. “Go there and we’ll do some clothes rearrangement and throw some things at you.”

 

Kibum’s sags against the wood, splinters pricking their bare arms, and thanks the lord Jonghyun isn’t here. Last time they’d had to wear feminine clothes and use female pronouns for disguise Jonghyun had been so distressed by the whole ordeal he hadn’t stopped world-shifting for a week after, flitting through intercosmic rends like a butterfly caught in a hurricane. Jonghyun’s never said quite why female-designated clothes work him up, but Kibum is good at guessing.

 

Kibum emerges from the shadows in slim-fitted, black trousers and a long, cobalt tunic sashed with a black ribbon. Irene makes a little noise of approval and Wendy positively bounds over to them, her whole face transformed from it’s earlier mask into the energetic, expressive features they’d known were hidden just below the surface.

 

Eyebrows drawn together in pleading, she takes their hands and says, “Look, I’m so sorry for earlier. It’s how this society works, y’know, and it’s awful and we’re trying to change it but we can’t do that cooped up within inner Rossalem so we have to at least _pretend_ we want to beat people up in order to escape the confines and actually reach those most in need of help.”

 

“Those punches didn’t feel like pretence.” Wendy’s long eyelashes flutter and God, why can’t Kibum just keep their mouth shut?

 

“I know, I know-“ Wendy opens her mouth, no doubt to justify her actions, but instead she swallows the words and just hangs her head. “I got a little over-excited.”

 

Kibum bites back their retort to that and merely asks, “So, how do I look?”

 

Wendy’s expression changes in a heartbeat, eyes lighting up, and suddenly Yeri is there too, both tripping over their words to compliment them. “…and your hair is just amazing!”

 

Kibum flips their lilac hair over their shoulder and is somehow reassured by its familiar weight, the heaviness against their shoulder blades. They smirk. “Thanks.”

 

They think that’s how an Omatiyor would respond.

 

The fifth Omatiyor - Irene’s right-hand, whom Kibum learns is named Seulgi - is hovering by the door, looking up and down the narrow, empty street. Kibum gulps down their nervousness before following Wendy outside. They aren’t about to be labelled as a coward; they think back to the way they hid behind the bar just a little while ago. But no, that was self-preservation, they convince themself, though they don’t know why they need such conviction; what’s so bad about being a coward anyway? Without them, how special would heroes be?

 

Anyway, Kibum’s always been good at acting. Though it kills them, a cold splash of pain in their stomach, to play into stereotypes, they do so nonetheless; smoothly straightening their posture, swaying their hips more - not that they don’t always slink - and holding their head high, their features arranged carefully into a mask of self-possession and frigidity. Out of the corner of their eye, Kibum thinks they see Irene smile slightly in approval, but that may just be a trick of the light.

 

Swiftly they sweep through the slums; Kibum curls their lips in sufficient disgust at the grovelling, homeless Omadsiz, nods self-importantly at other Troupes of Omatiyor they pass. At the edge of the shantytown, Irene momentarily pauses to exchange greetings and updates with another Omatiyor leader, a woman of similarly lithe build, sable hair swinging straight to the base of her spine. Kibum, feeling eyes on them, looks up to meet gazes with another Omatiyor.

 

Shockingly, this one’s hair is worn short, spiking up puckishly. The suspicious glint in her eyes contrasts the laugh lines at the edges of them. Kibum purses their lips and tilts their head, fluttering their long eyelashes. Kibum fusses slightly with their hair then runs their fingertips over the handcuffs attached to their sash, so effortlessly they should really get an award for their acting skills, until the Omatiyor stops glowering.

 

“Amber?” Her leader says, and the shorthaired Omatiyor immediately turns to her in subordination. “Irene, I trust your information about the South-West, we shan’t bother going there. I’ll see you later?”

 

Irene smiles graciously, “Of course, Victoria. Good luck.” Victoria disappears into the grim of the slums with her eager entourage and a flick of black hair, and Kibum lets out a shaky breath.

 

Thin fingers slip between their own and they smile at Yeri when she squeezes their hand tight for a moment before letting go.

 

Moving in neat formation, the six of them arrive at the palace far too quickly; Kibum isn’t half ready.

 

“Ready?” Yeri whispers in their ear as the eldest three negotiate with the palace guards. Joy stands protectively on their other side and Kibum tries not to think about how the whole arrangement feels like they’re being escorted to prison.

 

“As much as I’ll ever be.” They say, and off they go. The heavy, gold-plated palace doors close behind them with a resounding thud.

 

The tension throughout the Troupe is palatable, bubbling beneath the surface. Judging from the moody, barely-suppressed glares they’re receiving from the palace guards, it’s nothing to do with Kibum’s additional presence but an on-going struggle; perhaps Yeri had been telling the truth about the antagonism facing them due to their clemency towards the Omadsiz. The clicks of Irene’s heels echo along the neverending marble corridors, earning Kibum’s respect through her disregard of the looks and unsubtle mutterings. They can tell it hurts her to be talked about thus, but her passive-aggressive aloofness never falters.

 

“Nearly there.” Joy whispers, just as Kibum is about to ask that very question.

 

Then they round the next corner, and Irene stops dead in her tracks, her Omatiyor Troupe halting in perfect synchronisation behind her. Kibum can feel the sweat beading at the nape of their neck.

 

It’s a shade that’s not right. It’s a moment of panic. Somehow they manage to bow low alongside the others, staying folded at a 90-degree angle, until the Queen tells them to straighten.

 

The Queen. Hair the colour of ripe apricots plaited and piled up, elegant strands floating down to frame her heart-shaped face, loose coils in the dips of her collarbones. Her skin is ivory silk, her lips soft pink, her eyes lined with gold, dark irises sparkling. Dressed in cream chiffon from head to gold heels. A droplet of sweat trickles down Kibum’s spine.

 

Flanking her are two Omatiyor, armed to the nines, and beyond them a gaggle of advisors and handmaidens. The Queen consults one now, the tall, finely dressed Omatiyor whispering in her ear until the Queen waves her away.

 

“Bae Joohyun?” Voice strong soprano.

 

“Yes, your Majesty.” Irene bows again, one hand behind her back. Kibum can see her fingers twitching. The Queen’s gaze passes over all of them, before falling back upon Irene’s bent figure.

 

“Do stand up. You enjoyed your outing?”

 

“Of course, your Majesty.” Irene’s tone is clipped and cautious; only now does Kibum appreciate how affectionately she addresses her Troupe.

 

“You have someone new?” She doesn’t even glance at Kibum, but nonetheless they carefully don’t react.

 

Irene nods and clicks her fingers in Kibum’s direction. Kibum steps forward then bows low, straightening only when they hear, “Up you come, Miss. Oh, you’re rather gorgeous.”

 

Kibum panics again. They have literally _no_ idea what the right response to that should be. Do they let Irene talk for them? Do they thank the Queen themself?

 

Luckily, the Queen seems to find how flustered they are amusing. One of her party laughs and she joins in, blinking the intensity away, waving her hand dismissively at him. Kibum steps back hurriedly and, once they have their breath back, searches the Queen’s company for their saviour.

 

Kibum nearly gawps in shock. It’s a male; or at least, they look masculine. That the Omatiyor would tolerate a male in their midst! It’s so outside reason and all prior experience Kibum has with them that they decide it safer not to classify their champion, in case they do so inadvertently incorrectly.

 

They stand near the back, with their head hanging low so their hair falls into their eyes. An Adonis, with their golden skin and hair like midnight gloss, the bright, creamy fabrics swathed around their figure, blurring their silhouette. As if they can feel Kibum looking at them, they raise their head, tilting it slightly, as their lips twitch upwards prettily.

 

It’s a knowing smile, and Kibum’s legs feel weak with helpless gratitude.

 

“Sooyoung.” The Queen has been talking to Irene - caught up in the exchange of glances with the Queen’s masculine escort, Kibum has missed the entire conversation - and now turns to her advisor.

 

“Your Majesty?” Kibum thinks Sooyoung’s legs should be illegal.

 

“Ensure Irene and her Troupe receive all assistance they need.”

 

“Of course. Taemin?” Kibum’s rescuer moves forward, gliding through the air as a boat with full sail slices through waves, each bronze limb infused with Omatiyon grace. Taemin. Kibum swirls the name around their mouth, and appreciates the taste of it. Saccharine. Oddly familiar. They wish they could call it out loud.

 

Taemin bows to the Queen and she rests a hand on their ebony hair fondly.

 

“You are excused from this afternoon’s needlework.” She says, and Kibum stumbles with the sudden flash of golden hands and deft fingers, the weaving of threads and the loom, reflected in dark eyes. Kibum’s shoulder aches under the indomitable pressure of the vision, the swash of cloth against cloth overwhelming, the hunger to know _who_ , the silence of the sewing room deafening-

 

“You’ll look after them well, won’t you?” The Queen continues. Yeri’s hand is at Kibum’s elbow, steadying him. To the Queen, Taemin nods, smiles in a way that doesn’t reach their eyes. It’s a smile too mature for such a youthful face.

 

They plaster themselves to the walls and bow as she passes. The second the Queen and her entourage disappears, Irene is murmuring softly to Taemin, though they do not respond. Their eyes stay fixed ahead, their hands tucked neatly together behind their back. Kibum leans forward, is drawn closer, to see, to see, if those white marks are pin scars, if those beads of red on Taemin’s palms are needle-pricks.

 

“Taemin will take us to the portals.” Irene informs them, relief evident in her voice. Kibum hurries to straighten as she sweeps her gaze over her ducklings. “Apparently they’ve moved them since I lived here.”

 

(Irene lived in the palace? Did that mean-?)

 

Under her breath, Yeri mutters, “I can’t believe she treats you that coldly when you’re her-“

 

Irene clicks her fingers angrily and Yeri bites down her words, though her eyes fix on the back of Irene’s neck as though she is trying to burn a hole there.

 

Onwards they march, Taemin floating ahead of them with all speed and no signs of exertion. Kibum studies them from behind; the soft black hair brushing Taemin’s shoulders, their poise, how terribly thin Taemin’s wrists are, how slim their legs. Golden hands and deft fingers- Kibum wants to talk to them so badly they can feel each individual word as it sits heavily on their chest.

 

“Kibum?” Yeri whispers. They’ve dropped back to the rear; though Kibum wasn’t aware of slowing down, from the way Yeri’s facial muscles twitch it was planned. They nod, a small incline of their head, highly alert to the presence of the guards as they pass through doorway after magnificent doorway. “We’re.” They can feel the worry shimmering off her like waves, this small, young Omatiyor, her hands trembling as they brush against Kibum’s. “We’re normal, aren’t we?” They were right, then, about her being a world-shifter.

 

Kibum falters in their stride. Normal? “What’s normal?” They say. Yeri looks ready to argue, snap back, but she bites her tongue for the length of one corridor, and when she looks back up at them, she’s less afraid.

 

“But we’re not. Cursed?”

 

Kibum huffs out a laugh, chest tight. “No. You’re not cursed. You’re not wrong. I’ve met so many world-shifters, Yeri, you’re not alone. It’s difficult, yes, sometimes painful and often,” pause, for a passing Troupe, “terrifying, but it’s not the end of the world. It’s not the end of your world. You have so many possibilities and opportunities and I can tell you’ve got your wits about you and.” Something impels Kibum to take her hand for a moment, squeezing her fingers tightly. “You’re so good. You’re so right. You’re going to be fine.”

 

Yeri breathes shakily, glances around, and tugs Kibum enough for them to pause, time enough for her to press her lips to their cheek, so swift that had Kibum not been so on edge they wouldn’t have caught it. The deep, oddly familiar ache of bittersweet satisfaction is unmissable. Kibum doesn’t think they’ll return to Rossalem anytime soon.

 

They reach the portals and, sure enough, Kibum detects the rip with Yeri’s help. They whisper their thanks to Yeri, kissing her cheek back. She blushes as she promises to pass on their gratitude to the rest of the Troupe, who stand guard, Wendy talking Taemin’s ear off to distract them. Kibum doesn’t think Taemin’s buying it for one second, but they keep their eyes steadily averted, even as Kibum clambers through the veil with all the finesse of a seven-legged spider. They send one last glance in Taemin’s direction. The bones in Taemin’s jaw shift below the dark skin.

 

Even when Kibum finds themself back in their own world, in the middle of their living room carpet, their heart still aches with unsaid words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus points if you figured out who the queen is!


	3. Sley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (whispers shinee's back)

The phone keeps ringing. It ripples through the room, warping and distorting as it bounces off the walls and buries itself in Kibum’s brain, aggravating their headache. At first they attempt to sink deeper into the snowy wonderland of their multiple pillows, but at last they give in and forces themself to get up, abandoning the warmth and safety of their bed. Pins and needles prickle their legs as the blood flows down to their toes.

 

It’s probably only their editor, so Kibum doesn’t know why their hand shakes as they reach out for their phone. Their eyes catch on the wooden desk, the grain swirling in the shape of rose. When they look away from the table, Kibum is no longer stood in the middle of their bedroom.

 

They’re in a glass cabinet. Walls on all sides, and no door, and no air holes and. Kibum places their hands against the cool glass and feels, for all the world, like a museum exhibit. Something displayed. Something there for interpretation, but nothing definite, a flexible and immaterial object, scrutinised and ignored and infinitesimally important.

 

No air holes.

 

Kibum’s head spins, their stomach floored by the sudden realisation. Fuck, fuck. There’s a pedestal in the cabinet alongside them, no doubt support to something before them, and Kibum groans as they try to lift it. Far too heavy. But if they can just…

 

On their knees, Kibum leans their whole weight against the solid glass pedestal, panting desperately as inch by inch it makes its way towards the edge of the cabinet. Close, so close, but their ears are full of wool and their lungs of cotton dust and it’s tipping, tipping-

 

The crash echoes through Kibum’s mind and all through the building. Shards of glass cut Kibum’s bare feet as they stumble out, gasping in air. When the world stops spinning, Kibum winces their way to the delicate iron-wrought railing and stares out across the drop.

 

The building’s size in beyond comprehension. It reminds them of the loom; the flickers or it dancing beyond their understanding, glimpses of circular places in the past and haziness ahead, tangled threads in the time-space continuum, in places they haven’t lived yet. Across the wide chasm, Kibum sees other cabinets; a glance behind them shows their cabinet just one in…thousands? A hundred thousand? The wide floor hugs the wall, winds up the inside of the tower-like structure, like a huge spiral staircase without steps, a helter-skelter, the incline so gradual Kibum can hardly sense it. And still the glass cabinets stretch onwards and upwards, and each one of them…

 

Empty.

 

Unnerved, Kibum walks on, treading softly through the smothering silence. Not down; there’s something deeply disturbing about the darkness when they look down, a black and gaping maw of consumption. No, up, where ensconced candles light the way. The floor beneath their feet is formed of large stone blocks, the wide slabs dipping in the centres from years of use. Use by whom? They pass dark corridors bored into the main tower, the stone roughly hewn, like lice infestations through aged wood; through them, the pale, hushed glint of glass once more.

 

They don’t get dizzy, even as hours, or maybe years, pass by.

 

And then there is something, in a display case. Kibum looks up, then, and ahead, stretching around and up the curve of the stone tower, glass and more glass full of things; heavy coats and tapestries and jewellery and statues and shrunken heads and dolls and more, more their eyes can’t make out. They return their attention to the first full case beside them.

 

It’s a loop of human teeth, gleaming bright and threatening, threaded into a necklace. There’s a placard beside the plinth, reading ‘Izwe Mamlakat’ in small, neat, studious handwriting. They shudder at the memory. Kibum leans forward, and the movement passes candlelight over the wet ink.

 

The shuffle of something across stone. Something not Kibum.

 

Whirling around Kibum comes face to face with a hooded figure. For a split second, an absurd moment, Kibum flushes hot at the sudden outlandishness of their pyjamas, and then they’re backing up, the glass cold through the thin cotton material, cold against Kibum’s spine.

 

The figure doesn’t move. There’s an aching familiarity to the curves of the humanoid creature’s jaw, this bone-deep recognition that pierces even this odd habit-like garment, but Kibum’s unsure if they know this creature as friend or foe. So, carefully, Kibum peels away from the cabinet, edging around them and walking backwards carefully up the eternal slope, hands held out in front of them, placatingly, peacefully, adrenaline readying each limb in Kibum’s body for self-defence.

 

Softly, for disturbing the silence and in fear of sparking aggression, Kibum says, “I’ll just be going now. Thank you.”

 

Glancing back at regular intervals, Kibum forces themself to walk, until the spirals hide the figure from view and they break into a sprint. Fuck, fuck. Who knows what that was, whether it’s calling for reinforcements, if they offended it, if Kibum shouldn’t be here? They have to find another intercosmic rip, and soon.

 

Huffing, Kibum plows ahead, up and-

 

“Fuck!”

 

“Whoops!” They crash to the ground, bringing the foreign creature down with them. Hands on their elbow.

 

“Get away from me!” Kibum yells, momentarily forgetting where they are, the echo reminding them with dreadful certainty.

 

Another hooded figure; this one stands and, even as Kibum stumbles away on bloody feet, advances fast, latches onto Kibum with a human hand and slams another hand over Kibum’s mouth then drags them bodily into the nearest off-reaching corridor.

 

Under the cover of the shadows, the human yanks their hood off.

 

“Who the fuck are you?”

 

Kibum splutters, rushing to take in the person’s wide, soft face and sharp jaw, straight nose and thick eyebrows, intense eyes and puffy lips. “I should be asking you that!”

 

“Race?” The person demands, hands still gripping Kibum’s arms tight as iron.

 

“Human?” Kibum tries to sound sure but in their confusion it comes out a question.

 

Luckily their captor powers on, “Supporting?”

 

Kibum stares back, wide-eyed. “Supporting who?”

 

“Which side are you on in the fucking war?”

 

“I don’t fucking know!” Kibum hisses back. “I’m a fucking world-shifter!”

 

“You’re an…oh.” The person deflates, until it almost seems to be Kibum holding them up. “Eunsook.” The person mutters, distractedly. “She/her pronouns.”

 

“They/them. Kibum.”

 

“Kibum, hey?” Eunsook slumps onto the floor, leaning back against the wall of the tunnel. “Nice to meet you.” She doesn’t look at them, just stares straight ahead, and Kibum’s not sure if it’s because the adrenaline has sapped her strength or because she’s thinking.

 

Kibum crouches down next to her awkwardly. “You too.”

 

Eunsook’s hand shoots out again to clasp their forearm. “Wait, did anyone else see you?”

 

Kibum tenses again. “Yes.”

 

“Shit. Fuck. Look, follow me, and whatever you do, don’t touch the glass.” Eunsook stands, pulling Kibum upright, and bursts into a run down the corridor, away from the main tower, almost soundlessly. Kibum’s head whirls at the development, the smack of their feet on the floor painful but thankfully quieter than if they wore shoes. “Fuck!” Eunsook gasps breathlessly, pulling Kibum out of the light and down another offshoot corridor, holding a finger to her lips.

 

The hooded human glides past silently. Kibum waits and waits and then leans carefully, silently, forward and whispers next to her ear, “Eunsook, I shifted into a cabinet and broke it to get out.”

 

She turns to them, eyes wide with horror.

 

“Are they going to kill me?” Kibum breathes.

 

“Not,” Eunsook huffs back, the horror shoved aside by some unearthly fire. Kibum thinks the sight heavenly, “If we run fast enough.”

 

And so they run. Darting across huge corridors of stone, their reflections hounding them in glass cases like haunting ghosts, slipping into shadowy cracks and hidden store cupboards.

 

“Who are you?” Kibum pants, in one such cupboard, arms wide to suck in as much oxygen as possible.

 

“Espionage for the other side. The losing one. For the people these bastards destroy and collect.” Eunsook spits after a second. “Not any longer, though.”

 

Kibum’s chest winces. They’re not supposed to make things worse. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” The very base of Kibum’s tummy aches with the reassurance. “If I stayed a moment longer, I’d have gone mad.” Kibum sighs, a deep shuddery thing. Eunsook eyes them for a long moment, and then mumbles, “I’ve shifted worlds once.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Intercosmic rips don’t move, right?”

 

“Not the big ones.” Kibum says, not mentioning how their entire room back home has apparently become a tear in the fabric of reality, heart hammering the thrum of hope in their chest.

 

Eunsook offers Kibum her hand and she doesn’t let go, palm sweat slick against Kibum’s, as they dash out and up, ducking and weaving, sneak past clusters of hoods, past display cases that stare back at them, not even as they come to a huge staircase, steep and treacherous.

 

At the very top, Eunsook pulls Kibum back from almost topping headfirst over a low guardrail and into oblivion. They’re on a narrow strip running around the edge of the huge skylight at the zenith of the main tower. Kibum feels their stomach drop at the height. Trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline and fear, they shuffle around the edge until Eunsook tugs on Kibum’s hand, and points. First, down where Kibum squints at a black mass teeming up the wide spiralling floor, heart palpitating at the realisation that it’s the hoods coming for them. Then, right out, over the edge.

 

Kibum feels their mouth go dry. Yet, even as their head spins, Kibum can sense the slash in the material of the universe hovering over the ledge. They’ll have to jump off. Fall a little way down.

 

Kibum doesn’t ask how Eunsook found it but they’ve always been good at guessing. So they give Eunsook’s fingers an extra squeeze, and then let go, pushing Eunsook gently back away from the edge. Towards the stairs, like a reminder to go down that way.

 

“Will you be ok?” Eunsook asks, voice suddenly soft, her voice hardly audible above the rush of cloaks moving, rising up from below.

 

“Will you?” Kibum asks in return. Eunsook smiles, a smile like iron and blood and promises kept, already hitching up her cloak and withdrawing a knife from a strap around her thigh.

 

Kibum grits their teeth, prays that the threads of fate are kind for once, and jumps.

 

\---

 

Kibum stands in front of the mirror in their bathroom. Their black roots are starting to show and they glare at them half-heartedly; they can’t decide if the ebony fading to lavender looks good or not. Not that anyone will be seeing it, but.

 

Kibum feels worn thin, like old socks or a carpet, or a shawl in need of darning. They’re stretched too far, so far that nowhere they can do enough. Or else, and worse, so much worse, a dark and pervading fear, they touch on events, on places, on people, just once, just enough to leave a mark, and then they’re gone. Shuffled along. The shuttle passed back.

 

When that awful, biting tingling starts, Kibum stops poking their stomach and lets their hands wander to the call of the veil; they dip their fingertips into the mirror, swirling them through the surface and wondering at the silver viscosity of the glass.

 

Like water, the mirror parts around him as they slip through.

 

Their bare feet land on pale wood decking, made warm by the gentle sun. Beyond the little steps lies a small stretch of grass, the colour of late summer. The garden is small and familiar, though they don’t think they’ve ever been here before; it's a strange feeling, as though they have crawled inside their own dreams.

 

Surrounding the garden is a high wall, the top of which looks like a wave, red brick tiles floating on the ocean of creamy white stone, and snuggled in the left corner there sits a calm blue shed, far enough away to look fit for fairies but close enough that Kibum can see the every petal in the tiny flowerboxes. If they squint. Slender trees arch over the shed, framing it perfectly. The walls seemingly trap warmth, the air shimmering with faint heat; the sun's rays seep below Kibum's skin to warm their bones.

 

One wall hides beneath a trellis of emerald leaves and pink roses. Other flowers bloom in tiered flowerpots, hints of brown in the stems but leaves as green as ever. The jardinières are joined on the deck beside them by a simple, iron-wrought table and chairs. Each elegant chair has it’s own cushion, pastel thread stitched into flowers and birds, and beyond the head of the table there’s a wood-burning stove made of chipping rosy bricks, logs and kindling piled generously and arbitrarily, as if a young child had been balancing them and they’d tumbled down, unlit on the burner.

 

There’s a fountain too, the running water miraculously clearing Kibum’s mind, the quiet stream accompanied by the equally quiet chirps of birds flying overhead. There’s a statue of Buddha, or some similar religious figure, cross-legged and meditating in the centre of the pool below the small waterfall. A bird flits down to drink, then swiftly swoops off again, sunlight splashing off its feathers.

 

Something soft and fluffy touches Kibum’s calf and they nearly jump out of their skin. When they look down, a cat is winding itself through and around their legs, athletically slim but with cream fur so fluffy it looks more soft cushion than cat. Kibum makes little clicking noises with their tongue, little smooching sounds, as they crouch and bury their hands into that downy fluff, enticing loud, rumbling purrs from the feline.

 

“Aren’t you just gorgeous? So beautiful.” They draw out the vowels, their tone all fuzzy, with that blind adoration for cats one has.

 

“You’re rather beautiful yourself.” The cat replies.

 

Kibum topples over backwards and lands with an ‘oomph’ on the deck.

 

“I’m going mad.” They tell the sky.

 

“That’s a shame.” The cat murmurs mildly, nuzzling its tiny wet nose into Kibum’s palm.

 

“You are talking, aren’t you? It isn’t in my head?” Kibum sits up, cross-legged on the floor, subconsciously stroking the cat.

 

“Isn’t everything in your head? Does a physical world even exist?” The cat muses, voice breaking off into happy purrs when Kibum scratches under its chin. “Déjà vu.” The cats laughs in between purring. “Feels like Descartes has come to visit all over again.”

 

“You met Descartes?” Kibum splutters.

 

“Dear lord, have you not? I thought _everyone_ has met him. He says he knows everyone who’s anyone. Unless you aren’t worth his time?”

 

“I’m not _of_ his time, more like. He died ages ago.”

 

“But did he?” It sounds like the cat would be raising an eyebrow, if cats could raise their eyebrows. Instead, it just tilts its head at them curiously. “If one’s name lives on, can one ever die?”

 

The thought pulls a startled, interested huff from Kibum’s lips. “I don’t know.”

 

“Ah.” The cat smiles. “That’s the biggest question.”

 

“It wasn’t a question-“

 

“Do we ever know anything?” The cat continues blithely. “How do we come by knowledge? Does knowledge even exist? Surely all ‘knowledge’ we gain is through sensory experience and yet can we trust our senses? Can one trust in anything?”

 

For lack of a response, Kibum changes the subject. “I read an article recently about there being water on one of Saturn’s moons. They’ve flown a satellite through the water geysers that erupt from time to time through the thick layer of ice, and apparently there’s organic matter in it.”

 

“You don’t say!” The cat’s tail flicks excitedly. “Oh, I do love new information. Tell me, did they ever reclassify Pluto?”

 

(Oh yes, this was good. Kibum loves space. Kibum can talk about space. Fuck that nominalism shit.)

 

“It’s 134340 Pluto now. First, the team discovered Eris, a minor body that’s 27 percent bigger than Pluto and thus the 9th largest body known to orbit the sun. Then the IAU decided that the likelihood of finding more small rocky bodies in the outer solar system was so high that the definition "a planet" needed to be reconsidered. So Pluto was reclassified as a dwarf planet.”

 

“Oh, the poor thing.” The cat tuts sympathetically. They settle into silence, Kibum’s fingers combing through the long fur around the cat’s neck as the cat itself twists to lick its haunches. Only the fountain, and faint chirruping of the birds, and the cat’s greedy purrs can be heard.

 

(Kibum thinks they can see a universe shimmering behind the falling water; there’s another one lurking beneath the vines; yet another…)

 

“Hmm.” hums the cat. “You’re right.”

 

It doesn’t really surprise Kibum that the cat can read their mind. “But?” They prompt. Because there has to be a price to pay. Nowhere can be so perfect.

 

The cat laughs again. “You’re sharp, pretty one.” Kibum flushes pink even as they shake their head. They don’t need to say it out loud for the cat to hear their fervent disagreement. “Tch.” The cat scolds them gently. “You are.”

 

“Price?” Kibum says, voice tight with discomfort, desperate to change the subject.

 

“ _He_ has to give the all clear.” The cat flicks its tail in the direction of a statue, shrouded by shadows within a partially hidden alcove.

 

Kibum doesn’t know how they didn’t see it before. They stand and the cat mews its sadness at being left bereft of strokes before trotting delicately after them as they approach it.

 

The statue is of carved marble, perfectly smooth. The figure is that of a young man, with strong jawline despite the round face; complete with perfectly straight nose and full lips in a wide, closed-lip smile that doesn’t seem to meet his eyes, the stone only emphasising the intensity of his stare. The posture is neutral; his hands loosely clasped in front, an intricately engraved ring on his left index finger. There’s a timelessness to the statue that makes it impossible to estimate the man’s age.

 

“Does he give permission often?” Kibum asks, close enough that their breath ruffles the leaves of the plants that trail down over the statue’s quiff and shoulders like a hooded cloak. Kibum takes the cat’s laugh as a “no”.

 

The longer they inspect the statue (so finely detailed it really does seem likely to spring to life at any moment), from the faint dimples in the youth’s cheeks to the tiny cracks in his lips, the younger the man seems to look, until Kibum is thinking of him as a boy.

 

There’s something terribly familiar about him. Without conscious thought, Kibum finds themself trailing their fingertips over the exquisitely chiseled folds of the man’s shirt, startling a little at the coldness of the stone; they’d been expecting the warmth of a live being. Their fingers dance up to carefully touch the boy’s face.

 

“I don’t know where you could’ve seen him before. As far as I know, he’s never moved.”

 

“How do people leave then?” Kibum asks, glancing down at the cat.

 

The creature let out a pitiful meow. “They always leave when I’m asleep, so I wouldn’t know.” It tilted its head at them, laughing slightly, “Don’t you even think about knocking me unconscious.”

 

Kibum laughs with it. “I wouldn’t dare. I don’t suppose _you_ ’ve ever tried to leave?”

 

“Why would I want to?” The cat mused. “When I have everything to live comfortably here.”

 

Kibum frowns at that. “What do you eat?”

 

“Oh beautiful one, I don’t need to eat.” The cat says. Kibum kneels and gently pulls the cat onto their lap, cuddling it in their arms, snuggling their face into the soft fur of its stomach. There had been something so mournful, so nostalgic about that single clause that makes Kibum’s heart ache. The cat rubs its face against Kibum’s bony shoulder, makes a little mew, “You do though. You’re all skin and bones.” Kibum giggles at that.

 

“I can’t eat either.” They say. The cat doesn’t say anything in response, but it’s a little while before Kibum’s loving hands are able to caress a purr out of it. (There’s a difference between _can’t_ and _don’t_.)

 

The cat falls asleep and Kibum lays it carefully in the sunlight, pausing momentarily to admire the way the sun’s rays dust the cat’s fur in gold, before facing the statue again. Kibum doesn’t think enough time has past for the sun to have changed positions but somehow the statue is now doused in sunlight. It softens the statue’s expression into something genuinely happy, and Kibum finds themself echoing the smile.

 

“Well? The cat is asleep. Will you let me leave?”

 

The fern mantle shifts and a faery steps through the curtain of leaves, perched on the statue’s shoulder. Kibum blinks but is otherwise totally unsurprised; that is, until the tiny thing flies towards him, alights on their outstretched hand, and looks up at them with the same face as the statue.

 

“Hello!” The round face is cuter on a smaller scale, less intimidating, and the smile on those little lips is genuine.

 

“Hello.” Kibum says back, quietly, mindful of the faery’s delicate, elfish ears. “Will you help me leave?”

 

The faery tilts his head at Kibum, frowning so that miniscule creases appear between his eyebrows. “But you don’t want to go back.”

 

The faery raises it’s tone at the end so it sounds like a question, but it’s not really. Kibum doesn’t know what expression their face is wearing; they feel a bit numb. The feeling of the faery jumping up and down on their palm to attract their attention recalls them from the empty place they’d retreated to.

 

“Sorry.”

 

The faery smiles, and there’s something sinister lurking beneath it. “Don’t worry! So you want to leave? Are you sure?” Kibum hesitates. “Are you sure you’re sure? Don’t you want to stay with us?” The faery asks, excitedly, gauzy wings fluttering in anticipation.

 

The nagging reminds Kibum of Jonghyun, who in turn reminds him of Minho, and Kibum doesn’t really want to go back, but they do want to leave. There’s a subtle difference made obvious by the pathetic pain in their heart; they miss them. They haven’t seen them in at least a fortnight. They want to see them again, and the chances of them ever arriving here are minimal. Even if they did, they wouldn’t want to stay. And Kibum has a feeling that leaving is a one-time offer.

 

“Sorry.” They say again. The faery’s face falls, taffy pink lips forming a pout.

 

“Ok then. You have to kill the cat.”

 

Kibum blinks down at the faery, then bursts into peels of laughter.

 

“Very funny.” Kibum laughs, but even as they do so, their stomach roils with dread.

 

“I’m not joking.” The faery pouts up at them, black eyes wide with sincerity.

 

“I’m not going to kill the cat. It’s a nice cat.”

 

“Oh please Kibum, don’t be so childish.” The faery says. Only it’s not the faery speaking, it’s Kibum’s _mother_ , it’s her voice _exactly_ , the same tenor, same accent, same disapproving, disappointed tone. They don’t remember much of her, all the thread and memories messy with youth and inexperience, pricked fingers and harsh teaching. They shiver and drop their hand abruptly but the faery just flaps their wings and hovers in front of Kibum as if nothing had happened.

 

“Why should I kill the cat?” They spit.

 

“Because I told you to! And I’m the one who controls if you leave or not.”

 

“How’d you control that?”

 

“Bummie, I’m not going to tell you.” Shit, now it’s _Minho’s_ voice. Kibum’s hands are shaking. “Just kill the cat.”

 

(It’s not real anyway; Kibum knows the cat isn’t real.)

 

“That cat is nicer to me than you are.”

 

“The peasant is more pleasant than the warlord but who are you going to obey?”

 

“Is this a game to you?” Kibum demands.

 

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a game or not. Hunting is a sport until someone gets shot.” Kibum doesn’t even know what the faery is trying to _say_. “Just kill it quick. It’s asleep, it won’t feel it.”

 

Kibum wants to be sick.

 

(How many people have killed the sleeping cat before?)

 

The faery flies over to the cat and lands on its back, forcing Kibum to look at the feline. The cat’s ear flicks a little but it continues to purr softly, steadily, and sleepily.

 

(It’s not actually a cat, though, is it?)

 

“There’s nothing to kill the cat with.” Kibum declares.

 

The faery giggles, waves his hand vaguely, and then points at the iron-wrought table. “Not a problem!”

 

A knife glints in the sunlight.

 

(The cat isn’t real.)


	4. Loom Waste

Their editor has sent them their Monthly Movie Recommendation List. It appears in their mailbox at the start of every month, the first Thursday on the dot. Sometimes Kibum wonders if they want a list in return, but they never ask, so Kibum never sends one.

 

Anyway, the film Kibum just watched has them in _tears_. They’re always tearjerkers, their editor’s films. Stories about family and platonic bonds and pretentious teen angst that leave Kibum wrecked. More than once, Kibum has wondered if their editor isn’t a little sadistic, sending them all these films. Usually they manage to hold it all in but - perhaps because the protagonist looked a little like Jonghyun - they’ve ended up sobbing into their mountain of pillows. It’s been a long while since Kibum last cried.

 

( _Maybe_ , Kibum’s brain hisses, _it’s because you failed. It’s because the cloth is complete and there’s only so much you can do-_ )

 

Kibum sniffs. They’re going to write a complaint.

 

Now, feeling all snotty and disgusting, they clamber out of bed and go to take a shower, one so hot their skin burns red. They put their music on loud and let the water wash away the salty tear tracks down their cheeks. They know crying isn’t a weakness, as such, but just the _thought_ of crying makes Kibum feel so utterly pathetic; they only relax once the scalding water has swept away all residual vulnerability, and they feel like a normal person again.

 

Kibum gets out, pauses their music, and stands naked in the middle of their bedroom, the cold air flowing over their bare skin, making them feel thin and delicate and fragile. Their bed sheets need changing and they hate, absolutely hate, getting into bed when the sheets aren’t spotless right after they’ve showered, but there are invisible weights tied to their wrists, as a drowned man, and Kibum’s body hurts even at the thought of struggling to change the sheets. So they stifle their thoughts and slip back under the puffy duvet, focusing on how soft the cotton is against them. Not on how dirty and disgusting and lazy and gross and- _soft_.

 

Silence settles throughout their little apartment, and these are the moments when Kibum misses Jonghyun and Minho the most. Kibum wishes they were here to save them from their conscience; as it is they’re sinking, sinking into themself, drowning in their own brain. The duvet is oppressive but Kibum starts shivering when they attempt to get out, so they retreat and let the eiderdown smother them.

 

Kibum blinks and when they next open their eyes, Minho is over the other side of the room, sifting curiously through Kibum’s bookcase and the sheets of writing on their desk.

 

“Minho?” Kibum murmurs in quiet confusion. What’s he doing here? It feels wrong. It feels undeserved.

 

“Kibum!” Minho jumps. “I didn’t see you beneath those blankets.” Minho grins, crosses the room to perch on the edge of Kibum’s bed. “Don’t let it go to your head, but I might have been missing you. Just a bit.”

 

The laugh that leaves Kibum’s lips is the least calculated or controlled noise they’ve made in weeks, a spluttery, happy cackle. Minho’s face crinkles into a smile at the sound. (He always comes back.)

 

“I’ve missed you too, you oversized kid.” They shuffle aside to make room, patting the space beside them so Minho slings his legs round and lies next to them properly. They curl up facing one another, Kibum below the sheets and Minho sprawled on top of them, content with the companionable silence for the while being. Studying each other’s faces, recommitting them to memory, noting the tiny changes from since they last saw each other. Kibum’s eyes roam over Minho’s tanned, smooth skin, from the tips of his artfully messy, dark hair to the dips of his collarbones peeking out above the collar of his shirt. He has a new bruise around his neck, long, finger-shaped purples and greens. At one point, Minho reaches out and takes Kibum’s hand, dwarfing it within a sandwich of his own large, warm hands.

 

“Your hands are freezing!” Kibum’s too busy trying not to blush to respond.

 

Like the quiet, trustworthy warmth of a summer night, peacefulness fills the room, fills Kibum, until they’re calmer than they’ve been for ages.

 

“Is Jonghyun alright?”

 

Minho’s mouth twitches into a half smile. It looks oddly mannequinesque. “He’s doing well. Ended up having to cross-dress yet again and he lost his shit for a bit but he’s back to normal now. He’s been missing you too, y’know. Wouldn’t stop whining about sacrificing people to the ether in an attempt to bring us together again.”

 

After waiting a second to let the overwhelming feeling of being loved die down, Kibum teases, “Well, I’ve definitely been missing him more than than I’ve missed you. Why did the multiverse send me a giant?” and Minho duly over-reacts, huffing and shoving Kibum’s shoulder before rolling over so Kibum’s faced with the muscular planes of his back. Kibum shuffles forward and slips an arm through the gap between Minho’s neck and the pillow and drapes their other arm over Minho’s side, so they can spoon the taller man, bending their legs into the curves of Minho’s, breath ruffling the fluffy hair at Minho’s nape. Minho hums his forgiveness.

 

“He’ll be jealous when I tell him I’ve seen you. He’ll be glad you’re alright.” There’s a pause, then Minho twists to fix Kibum with that worried, motherly stare of his. “You _are_ alright?” When Kibum doesn’t respond, Minho turns around completely within the cage of Kibum’s arms, blinks at their abrupt closeness, then plows on, “You can trust me.”

 

“You can trust me too.” Kibum says. They’re not trying to make a point, but Minho grimaces a little and shrugs.

 

“I suppose you’re right. Even if I trust you, I’m not about to spill my deepest darkest secrets to you.” No, he’s not; he’s never been Jonghyun. “Wait, I’ll tell you one. Did I ever mention my acute fear of spiders?” Kibum feels the way Minho shudders at the thought and they both laugh.

 

When the giggling dies down, Kibum clears their throat and whispers softly, “I’m just afraid you won’t like me, if I tell you what makes me so…anxious, all the time.”

 

Minho makes a quiet ‘tch’ noise, pushes forward to brush his nose against Kibum’s. Minho’s low, deep voice rumbles soothingly through Kibum’s bones, “I would never dislike you.”

 

( _He might hate you, though_.)

 

“And I could never hate you.” Minho adds. He must see the surprise in Kibum’s expression because he appears momentarily hurt, then simply, heart-wrenchingly, sincere. Minho’s smile, the way it swallows his eyes and crumples his handsome face into this adorable, boy’s face, makes Kibum’s blood sparkle in his veins.

 

“Ok.” Kibum whispers back.

 

When Kibum opens their eyes and finds themself staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling of their otherwise empty room, they can still feel the steady weight of Minho’s big palm resting on their waist and the hot sweetness of Minho’s breath tickling over their cheeks.

 

\---

 

Kibum hates cutting their fingernails, because then when their skin itches, they can’t use their nails to scratch at their thighs and hips and forearms. ( _Moth holes._ )

 

Anyway, that’s irrelevant. Right now they have bigger concerns. Kibum has to leave the house - they’ve run out of coffee and they _cannot_ live without wool - but they don’t want to. They can’t stand it. They can feel people staring at them, curling their lips in disgust. They nearly laugh; for all that they told Yeri they weren’t an Omadsiz, they were lying. They’re actually worse; they are far filthier, far more useless and more pathetic.

 

Kibum’s skin is itching but they can’t scratch it off because then people will stare even more. ( _Nobody will darn them safe anymore._ )

 

By now they’re pushing open the doors of the main lobby. They pause for a moment at the top of the stairs, just enjoying the feeling of sunlight, the warmth sinking down through layers of skin and fat and other tissues to heat their insides. The sun doesn’t discriminate who it shines upon.

 

_We like nature so much, because it has no opinion of us._

 

“Hey!” Somebody calls, and Kibum has to fight not to run right back inside again. Their stomach turns and they desperately try to recall everything they’ve done recently.

 

(Oh God, oh God, what have you done now? Have you done something wrong? You must’ve done. What, what, oh God, what have you _done_ , Kibum? Who’ve you disappointed or hurt or horrified now?)

 

“Hiya!’ Their neighbour grins as she climbs the steps two at a time, a bag of groceries in each hand. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

 

Kibum smiles back. “I’ve been busy; we must’ve kept missing each other.” The lie makes their throat tighten. “You’re looking amazing!”

 

She - Kibum can’t remember her name? Even on Bad days, they’ve always been good at names, how have they forgotten hers? - preens a little at that. “Thanks. I’ve finally been making use of my husband’s gym membership.” She’s married? When did that happen?

 

“How is he?” They ask vaguely.

 

She gasps. “Oh gosh, you don’t know, do you?” Her face positively shines. “Don’t worry, ‘m not married yet.” A short burst of laughter. Kibum blesses, for once, heteronormativity. “No wonder you just looked like somebody just moved all your furniture without you knowing. I’m engaged!”

 

“Congratulations.” Kibum grins, and it’s possibly the only genuine thing they’ve said in the whole conversation. “He’s lucky to have you.”

 

She flushes happily at that. “Thank you. Come on, tell me. Have you got anyone?”

 

Kibum can’t help but laugh, shaking their head. “Not at the moment.” Not any time soon.

 

She pouts cutely. “You’ll find somebody worth you one day, babe.” For a split second, Kibum sees Minho in their mind’s eye. The image warps into Jonghyun, then Jinki. Their brain hurts. “Will you have dinner with us? You look like you could do with a decent meal; all skin and bones, you are! It’s nothing special, I just nipped out to grab some things, but-“

 

“Thanks for the offer.” Kibum says, masking how much the very thought terrifies them. “But I’ve got to…” They shrug, and she rolls her eyes in sympathy.

 

“Sure, sure. Stupid work! Well, I shan’t keep you any longer. See you around?”

 

Her name comes into Kibum’s head at the last second, to their relief. “Good to see you and congrats again, Ailee.”

 

After that Kibum keeps their head down.

 

Across the road, even as the green man flashes and fades into black and red and Kibum still crosses. _Snip_. The first heat of summer chases them along the pavement, tossing lost petals into the air, brushing playfully against Kibum’s skin, smelling like hot asphalt and sun-scream and broken childhood. _Another knot tied._ Into the convenience store, the cold air blasting out the increasing warmth, cutting Kibum to the bone, through muscle and sinew and freezing their very marrow. _Snip_. And it’s empty, every short aisle a warren of discarded packets stuffed in wrong places and bright colours merging and swirling and blurring across the pattern of Kibum’s conscious, and not a living thing in sight. Kibum’s shoes tread quiet, soft in the silence and hard on the edge of here and there, and when did Kibum last eat and where did Kibum last see Jonghyun and did they ever know Minho at all, and. _Snip_. Kibum’s hand shakes as their thin fingers grip onto the jar of instant coffee and then there’s a flash of Eunsook’s face, and that girl they once helped years ago, and their shapeless mother, and the flick of a cat’s tail around the end of the tin pyramid at the aisle end and the crash of the glass case- no. _Knots tied_. The crash of the instant coffee on the floor, and the shattering of worth and the wave of coffee beans over the cheap tiles and Kibum’s feet and the sound of something approaching and.

 

The cashier smiles at Kibum, a full-lipped, soft smile of faerie origin, dark eyes sparkling like the sun on corrugated roofs and hair like midnight ink. They offer a hand that’s pin-pricked and calloused and Kibum’s on the floor but they don’t know how they got here and they don’t know why, or when or how, but this keeps happening and they’re tired, and sad, and they’ve given all the threads of their soul away.

 

So they take the hand.

 

_Snip._


	5. Double Knot

“Haven’t you had enough?” The young woman jumps at the sudden question, turns around sharply.

 

“Oh.” She smiles, a dusty thing, an aching thing. “It’s only you.”

 

“Only me?” Junghee pushes herself off the doorframe and into the room. Dust mites leap into action as her long skirt brushes the dirty floor, wool in the corners and pins between the old floorboards, the yellow walls softened by years of sunlight streaming through the wide French windows. “I’m hardly an _only_.”

 

Her friend is paying her little attention, though. “Doesn’t it look beautiful?” She glances away for a second, reaching out a trembling hand and pull Junghee into place, then returns to fuss once more with the fabric, until it hangs just so right. “With the light of the sunset falling on it.” They stand there, together, looking at the tapestry, before Junghee is abandoned; her friend flutters to the doors, open onto the Juliet balcony, as if willed there by a fickle breeze. Junghee watches sunlight curve over the gentle slopes of her face, for a long moment of silence, and then she shakes her head a little and the spell is broken. She returns to Junghee’s side.

 

“Haven’t you had enough?” Junghee repeats, sliding one arm around her friend’s narrow waist. She rests her dark head on Junghee’s shoulder. She watches, with fae eyes, careful and wistful, as Junghee reaches out and traces a band pale pink thread through the sunset with her free hand.

 

“I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of it, Junghee.” She whispers, voice sad, so sad Junghee’s whole body aches with it.

 

She doesn’t say the rest, doesn’t say ‘ _not while you’re still unhappy too, and not while these yellow walls and the long nights and these thoughts keep me terrified and trapped and pretending and not while he’s gone, and not when the world suffers, and not when nothing I do is ever good enough_ -‘.

 

Instead, Tae kisses Junghee’s soft cheek and says, “The loom just wasn’t big enough.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! All your comments and kudos mean so, so much to me. Find more SBB fics, including this one, completed, at http://shineebigbang.livejournal.com/


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